Equal Opportunities
by KaleidoscopeKreation
Summary: Women have more rights now, in the present day, than they have had at any other time in history. All the world over, women are breaking free. They are developing a voice. They are represented among the nations as never before... In more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1: America

_Women have more equal rights now, in the present day, than they have had at any other time in history. _

_In most countries, women have the right to vote. Women have the right to receive equal pay, equal opportunities, and equal education to men. _

_There are countless famous female figures – artists, scientists, politicians and businesswomen – all helping to improve and run the world. Although their numbers are not yet equal to the number of prominent men, their numbers are increasing, year on year. _

_In short, all the world over, women are being emancipated. They are developing a voice. They are represented among the nations as never before..._

_In more ways than one._

* * *

**Chapter One**

**America**

It was a beautiful morning in New York City.

Golden morning sunshine turned the plate-glass windows into incandescent rectangles of light; it lit the Spring-green leaves of the city trees so that they seemed to gently glow. The occasional bark of a dog and the twitter of birds mingled with the human noises of motorcycles thrumming into motion, and shop-keepers rolling up the front of their stores. The first of the day's conversations flickered to life in streets and houses, a million voices bidding one another good morning in hundreds of different languages. The city that never slept was slowly waking up.

But then, suddenly, the peace was interrupted by an incredibly loud cry of complete and utter shock that echoed through an open window and far into the neighbouring streets.

'Whhhaaaa-!'

It trailed off with a sort of guttural squeak.

Birds stopped singing. People looked up from their papers. Food vendors paused as they handed over change. For a moment, everything seemed to pause.

But life must continue, and so people shrugged, picked up their things and moved on, dispelling the strange gut feeling that something essential had changed in the air, in the water, in the city around them.

For one person in the city – the one who had cried out – the change was the most obvious thing in the world.

'_What_ is _this?'_

Alfred F Jones – otherwise known as America, or the USA – gazed at the full-length mirror in complete and utter disbelief.

Blonde bed-head with one Nantucket-shaped strand sticking up: check.

Big, bright blue eyes: check.

White teeth: check.

Glasses, jammed on during the mad rush to the mirror: check.

Tanned skin, good complexion: check.

But after that... After that.

Everything went haywire.

Full lips? A heart-shaped face? Glancing downwards – trying not to boggle – full-blown _boobs, _and a complete and utter lack of –

Alfred F Jones screwed her eyes shut, and collapsed dramatically on the floor, moaning slightly. She grabbed her Statue of Liberty T-shirt, which she had hurled on the floor as she reached the mirror, and clasped it to her chest (_soft?), _then rocked backwards and forwards and screwed her eyes tight shut.

'What – the _fuck - _this is just a dream. This is just a crazy dream...' she hissed to herself, gritting her teeth. She held her breath, pinched herself, and counted slowly to ten. Then she propped herself up on one elbow, facing the mirror, and forced herself to look again.

Absolutely no change whatsoever.

'WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?' she yowled.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. 'Mr Jones? Is everything alright in there?' Damn it damn it damn it, one of the staff!

Alfred swore under her breath and approached the door. 'Sorry!' she said, and then hissed another curse. 'Sorry,' she repeated, putting on an exaggeratedly low voice. 'I just, uh... I just hit my... self on a... chair. It's coming up with a pretty big bruise.'

An awesome lie, if she did say so herself.

There was a slight pause. 'Oh,' said the voice. 'Would you like some ice, or something?'

'No – no, I'll be alright!' Alfred said, very quickly. 'I'll just go run it under the cold tap! Yeah!' She sprinted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut extra loudly for effect.

And there she was again, in the bathroom mirror. Pink-cheeked, tousle-haired, breathing hard, and completely, undeniably _female_.

Alfred sat down on the bathroom stool and buried her face in her hands. 'What the hell am I going to do?'

* * *

There was nothing to wind one down on a rainy April afternoon like a nice cup of Builder's tea.

Arthur sighed and dunked a digestive biscuit carefully into the hot tea. Years of experience allowed him to pull the biscuit out at precisely the right moment to make sure that it was saturated with tea without crumbling and breaking apart. He munched on it happily, savouring the perfect union of tea and biscuit, before reaching for the day's copy of _The Telegraph_ that he hadn't quite finished reading yet...

_Brrrrrriiing!_

'Oh, sod it,' he expostulated. Absolutely bloody typical that the phone should ring now.

_Brrrrrriiing! _

'I'm coming, I'm coming,' England grumbled, zipping around the corner into his study. He shunted a sheaf of papers away from on top of the phone onto his Macbook instead (it wasn't like he used it or anything), steadied a tottering pile of books and then picked up the phone.

_Brrrrri-_

'Good afternoon, Arthur Kirkland speaking.'

'England! England, it's me!' England could hear what sounded like the swish of cars going by, and a radio playing in the background. 'Boy, am I glad that you're there!'

Arthur frowned. 'Is that America?'

A strangely high-pitched laugh. 'Yeah, it's me. Listen, are you busy right now?'

Arthur gave a massive sigh, fluttering his fringe. 'I had _just _sat down with a cup of tea and a digestive, actually, but...'

'D'you think that I could come over? I really, _really _need your help.'

'What are you talking about, America, you're in New York and – '

'Okay, bye!' the phone went dead.

England put it back on the hook with a sigh. Honestly, Alfred was the limit. What on earth had possessed him to hop on a plane and come to Sussex – especially with a petrol shortage on? Arthur looked out at the driving rain and scowled to himself. It was beyond ridiculous.

Still. Alfred had sounded so relieved when he had picked up the phone. It was nice to feel needed by America every once in a while, no matter how annoying he might be. Arthur glanced at his watch and made plans. Alfred would probably be arriving late tomorrow, and that gave him time to get some extra food in and spruce up one of the spare bedrooms...

Just then, there was a frantic banging on the door.

Arthur almost jumped out of his skin. 'What now?' he grumbled to himself.

A thought occurred to him, but he shook his head. Not even America would be as presumptuous as to turn up at his house with only a phone call's notice. Not unless he was in some real trouble.

Arthur brushed his anxieties aside. No. It was probably just a charity collector or the gardener asking about rose manure. Although it was too wet for gardening, today, really.

Shaking his head again, Arthur removed the chain and unbolted his large, old, oaken front door.

The sound of rain and the damp, cold air immediately flooded in, and England shivered slightly, narrowing his eyes as he tried to make out who the waiting person was, shrouded in their waterproof coat...

He relaxed slightly in relief. Not America, thank goodness. A girl, he could tell by her figure, and quite a pretty girl, actually, from what he could see of her face. He opened the door a little wider.

'Good afternoon. Can I help you?' he asked politely. 'Are you lost?'

Then the girl pulled off her hood, letting loose a tumble of short, damp blonde hair. 'Aw, don't even you recognise me, England?'

But now he did. Of course he did.

He would know those eyes anywhere.

England's mouth fell open. '_America?'_

* * *

'...And then once I got away from the passport forger, I got straight on a plane to England, I don't really know why,' America concluded, cradling her mug of tea to her chest. 'And then I called you, and now here I am.'

England sat back, dumfounded. 'What on Earth... I've never heard of anything like this happening to a nation before. _Ever._'

'So there's no way that you can change me back?' America said, looking desperate. 'You _are_ a magician.'

England rubbed his chin, considering. 'Well, I suppose there _are _the ancient midsummer rites...'

'Midsummer? But that's months away?' America whined.

England ignored her. '...On midsummer's eve, we could try and evoke the love spirit of the Lea marshes, but she doesn't really like being bothered much. We'd have to get you neck-deep in the mud with at least one offering of entrails, and then she might not even do it and just turn you into a – '

'Forget it!' America snapped. 'I'd rather stay the way I am.' She twiddled her thumbs for a few seconds, and then looked up hopefully. 'Maybe I could get trans surgery?'

'I'm not sure if that'll do much good,' England said dubiously. 'You know how quickly we heal. I have a feeling that your body would just end up morphing back into what it considers to be its natural state again...'

'Oh, for crying out loud!' America thumped her tea-mug down on the table and got to her feet. 'Why is this happening to me? You don't just turn into a girl and get boobs and stuff for no reason! Oh my _God, _this is so stupid!' She threw her hands up dramatically in the air. 'Why me?' she yelled. '_What have I done to deserve this_?'

Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, England couldn't help but smile a little bit. 'Calm down, America, dear, you – '

'Calm down, dear? _Calm down, dear? _You sound like David fffffff-frickin' Cameron! I bet that if _you_ were the one who'd turned into a chick you'd be blind drunk and swearing yourself to hell by now!'

England threw his palms up in the air. 'Alright, alright. I was just going to suggest that you should –'

'What? Suggest _what?'_

'That we should calm down and think about this logically!'

'_Logically?' _America shrieked. 'This whole thing isn't _logical_! There's nothing logical about changing sex overnight! It doesn't make any damn sense!'

England watched with apprehension – and slight, guilty amusement – as America stamped her foot, swore and then collapsed in her chair.

'Curves... _Boobs,' _she moaned to herself. 'This can't be happening.' She slouched heavily in her chair, one hand covering her face, the other feeling her own chest as though in disbelief that it existed.

There was no denying that it did exist, England thought, looking at it for a second too long before making himself focus on his tea. But after another second, he couldn't stop himself looking back at America. She didn't make a bad girl – all things considered – and suddenly, it was all England could do not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. America, as a woman – who'd have thought it?

America looked up from her hand a second later, and England dropped his gaze quickly back to his tea.

'You know what?' she said loudly. She clasped her hands to her bosom and looked up at England with a defiant glare. 'Screw it. You know what? _I like them.'_

England blinked, stared at her for a few seconds, and then burst out laughing.

America glared. 'Dammit, England, this isn't funny – '

'But it's hilarious!' England wept, propping himself up on the table. 'You, of all people, turning into a girl...'

America slammed her palm down on the table. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

England just shook his head weakly, clutching his ribs.

America strode across the room and stood in front of England imposingly. 'Quit laughing _right now _or I'll?'

'What? Turn me into a girl, too?' England chortled.

She seized him by the front of the shirt. 'Or I'll slap you to infinity and back, limey, because so help me, I'm a superpower, and I'm still stronger than you!'

England sobered up slightly. 'Oh, alright,' he said. 'It's just... you're so cocky and bumptious that it's hilarious to see you so – what's the phrase? – freaked out.'

America narrowed her eyes, and England noticed, with a slight feeling of guilt, that they looked tired and bloodshot. 'You're horrible, you know that?'

Arthur held his hands up, again, appeasingly. 'I'm sorry, love. I suppose another way of looking at it is... I think that you'll make a great girl. If anyone can deal with a mix-up like this it's you.'

Alfred looked slightly mollified. 'Hmph. Well. I guess I'm awesome no matter which way you look at it.'

England got up too, noticing in annoyance that America was still taller than him. 'Well, your head hasn't deflated, that's for sure.' Now that they were on a level again, he looked America up and down, slowly.

Although there was a tired hunch to her shoulders, her clothes were baggy and her hair was a mess, there was no denying that she was beautiful. She had a fine figure, and her muscle was still there, just not as bulkily as before. Her skin was lovely and smooth, and, given a brushing, her blonde hair would look beautiful framing her face. Her lips were a gorgeous pink, and, as she caught Arthur looking, a rosy blush appeared on her cheeks.

'Hey, are you eyeing me up?' she said suspiciously.

England quickly averted his eyes. 'Of course not!' he lied through his teeth. 'Honestly, just because you've morphed into a pretty girl doesn't mean that you're any more attractive to me!' He exhaled noisily. 'What a preposterous concept that would be.'

America raised her eyebrows. 'So you think that I'm pretty?' she said, smirking slightly.

'Hmph. Well, tolerably so, I suppose,' England hedged, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. He didn't altogether trust that gleam that was appearing in America's blue eyes. It was making him his palms sweat and his heart speed up in a way that wasn't altogether unpleasant.

He decided that at this particular juncture, a speedy subject change would be very prudent indeed.

'Do you suppose that this has happened to anyone else?' he said abruptly.

America frowned at the lurching change of topic, but didn't comment on it. 'No idea. I guess we'll find out soon enough, huh?'

'If this has affected one Nation, I'm sure that it will affect others, too,' England mused, 'and that will certainly add a little variety to the next few world meetings.'

'Heh, I can't imagine that even Germany will be able to keep order.' America gave a sudden snort of laughter. 'Hey, imagine if Germany's had a sex-change too! Can you imagine Germany as a girl?'

England found himself chuckling in spite of himself. 'I'm not sure if I want to think about that. He'd make a wonderful Valkyrie of a nation.'

'Or Japan? I've always thought that he's a bit girly!'

'America!' England chided. 'Just because he has a healthy appreciation for the arts of cooking and flower-arranging...'

'Or maybe even Canada? Let's see him beat me at Hockey now!'

'Now that's enough, Alfred!'

'Oh yeah... I'm a girl too. I guess we'll both be trying out for the women's teams next season...'

'You have no evidence that he's undergone the same phenomenon as – '

Suddenly, something vibrated in America's pocket.

'_O-OH SAY CAN'T YOU SEEEEEEEEEEE, BY THE DAWN'S – '_

'Ugh!' England yelped, covering his ears. 'What an awful ringtone! Get it out and answer it as quickly as you can!'

America glared, fishing in her pocket and flipping open the phone. 'Insult my national anthem again, and I'll – hey, look who's calling...'

She turned the phone around so that England could clearly see the caller ID.

_United Nations_

_Emergency Department_

England frowned. 'They were quick off the mark. Someone must have recognised you and told them.'

'Or maybe another Nation has changed and already reported it to the UN, so they're checking up on everyone,' America added. He took a deep breath.

England sat back in his chair and sighed. 'Brace yourself. I have a feeling that this is going to be an interesting phone call.'

* * *

**To be continued...**

**A/N: **So. Someone on the Hetalia LJ Meme had the idea for this fic, but I only heard about it second-hand and I was unable to track down the prompt, so I decided to post it up on here anyway in the hopes that someone will come forward!

I originally wrote this for an anti-USUK friend, who told me that the only way that she would conceivably ship USUK is if America was Genderbent. As anyone will tell you, I like a challenge, and so I decided to try and win her over to the dark side by writing her a fic with exactly that pairing. And this Bunny was just too neat a method to pass up!

However, there is now a secondary option as to what I should do with this new fic:

Fem!US x UK, huh? Well, it's certainly odd, but it's only the start of the antics that the Genderbent nations will be getting up to. I'm inviting YOU – yes, YOU – as a reader to suggest Nations which you think should undergo Male-Female gender changes, with the option of adding a pairing which you think would work under the circumstances. I'm only going to be writing about 5 chapters of this story – maximum – because I'm a busy engine at the moment with exams and whatnot, but even so. Please tell me all your ideas, and hopefully there will be many more Gender-equal adventures to come!

Yours truly,

Izzyxox


	2. Chapter 2: Germany

**Chapter 2**

When Germany woke up on a bright Spring morning and realised that his gender had changed, he was calm.

He calmly got out of bed, calmly showered, calmly got dressed (boring a new hole in his belt with his penknife), calmly made his breakfast (with the coffee perhaps just a _little _stronger than usual) and calmly ate it. Then he calmly went to the nearest shopping centre to his house, and bought himself all the things he knew that women needed – a big hairbrush, a bra, and, after a short period of deliberation, some sanitary materials, too.

He bought some trousers that stayed up properly, too.

Then he went home, calmly got out his phone and called the UN's Emergency Number. He calmly explained the situation to them, assured them that yes, he was perfectly fine, and after an exchange of pleasantries, hung up.

And finally, he sat down at his desk, sighed, and started on his paperwork, calmly waiting for the whole thing to blow over.

* * *

When the next morning dawned and Germany was still stubbornly female, he began to feel rather anxious. Perhaps this wasn't, after all, just another of those twenty-four hour things, like a head cold or Peace One Day. Maybe it was more serious.

The day before had been the first time that he had ever rung the UN Emergency Number, but it looked like it wasn't going to be the last. When a brisk female attendant picked up the phone on the second ring, he felt quite embarrassed to be treating something that she dealt with every day as any sort of crisis.

'Has anybody else been affected by this... condition?' he asked her, in his calmest, most polite tone. His voice sounded higher than usual, and for a moment he put it down to nerves, before remembering that _of course _a female voice would be higher than a male's.

'Yes, in fact,' she said, in her perfectly enunciated international German. 'There's been a reported change in several other major world nations. On enquiry, we found out that among others, Ireland, Hong Kong, New Zealand and the United States of America had undergone overnight gender changes similar to - '

'America?' Germany couldn't help exclaiming. He felt a smile beginning to tug on the corners of his mouth. 'How's he coping with it?'

The secretary paused for a moment, and Germany wondered whether he had committed some sort of faux-pas. 'The personification of the United States of America is currently residing in the UK. We are under the impression that _she_ went there in order to see England for emotional support,' the secretary paused again, 'my colleague reported in the minutes of the phone call that she sounded rather shocked but otherwise quite well.'

So America had gone to England in preference of France or his brother? Interesting, very interesting. But this incessant 'she' business was beginning to grate on his nerves. Changing pronouns made the whole thing seem too permanent for his liking.

The secretary was still talking. '...We haven't yet managed to contact all of the nations – Russia, Finland, Sweden and Afghanistan, to name a few – but we did receive word yesterday from Iceland and Norway that their genders had changed. To be honest, those two were no great surprise...'

Germany frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, Iceland and Norway are the two of the most gender-equal countries in the world, with the other Scandinavian nations not too far behind. They both said that they felt that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.'

'This is to do with global Gender Equality, then?'

'That seems to be the most likely solution, yes?'

Germany took a deep breath. 'And gender equality... it's increasing, isn't it?'

'Year on year, in most countries, yes.'

A feeling of dread was building slowly up inside him. 'I see. Well, thank-you very much for your time, Madam.'

'You're most welcome, Germany,' the secretary said. She hesitated for a moment, and then spoke again. 'You, know, being a woman isn't something altogether bad. In time, I'm sure you will grow to accept it.'

Germany sighed shakily, gathering together his last reserves of civility. 'I'm sure it isn't, Madam. I'm sure I will... adjust.' It was beginning to look like he wasn't going to have much choice in the matter. 'Good evening.'

The phone almost slipped from his fingers back onto the hook.

He sat down with a thump and buried his head in his hands.

Female. _Female._ It was too much for him. Germany had always been a man. He was tough, strong, practical. His economy was infallible. His military was one of the strongest in the world. He drilled the toughest of physical trainings regimens every day.

He couldn't be a woman. Quite simply, it didn't compute.

Imagining America female was doable. And some countries, like Japan and Finland (had he changed too? The UN hadn't been able to contact him, had they?) were almost easy to visualise as women – a few, like Poland, almost laughably so.

But _himself? _He was masculine to the point of stereotype. He was a soldier. He wasn't one of these betwixt-between nations like Canada or Italy or...

_Italy? _The woman hadn't mentioned him either! If there was a world-wide gender-sweep happening, surely _Italy _would be one of the first to change. Germany was overcome by the injustice of the situation. Italy would have taken to being a woman like a duck to water, but he, _he _was just not cut out for it. It was insane.

Just as Germany was wondering how things could get any worse, the phone rang.

He breathed out heavily through his nose and punched the bed to vent his feelings. 'Dammit!' He sighed, ran a hand through his hair and composed himself. He would appear calm and unaffected. He would give the impression of being unconcerned by the sudden upheaval of his life. Even in the worst-case scenario of it being Prussia or Italy who had decided to call him (Oh_ Gott in Himmel_, Prussia as a woman? That would be a spectacle if there ever was one), he would be collected and _not lose his temper. _He was a soldier. He could deal with anything.

He took one more deep breath, reached out and picked up his phone. 'Hallo, this is Germany speaking. How may I help you?'

'Germany._ Germany! _Oh _Liebe Gott... _I didn't believe them at first... You have turned into a woman, haven't you?'

There was no point in denying it, seeing as his voice had heightened by about two octaves since the last time that he had spoken to Austria. Germany simply sighed heavily and said, 'yes, it's true. I have.'

There was the sound of frantic rustling from the other end of the phone, and a shout of something which sounded very like "send out for more hazelnuts and coffee!" although with the shocking Austrian dialect he could never be sure. 'Hold on, I'm coming straight over. Hungary and Italy happen to be here, thank the Lord, so I'll take them, too. Damnit, where's my passport?'

Germany clutched the phone in panic. 'No, Austria, _please don't bring – '_

'It's going to be alright, don't worry, Ludwig!' There was a bleep, and the phone disconnected.

The room suddenly seemed very silent.

It didn't make sense. Even Austria, who had a beauty spot and prided himself on his baking abilities, was still male.

Germany lay back on his bed and wondered whether there was a God somewhere laughing at him.

**~O~**

'OF – ' _Bang ' – _THEE I SING, BABY! SUMMER, AUTUMN WINTER AND SPRING, BABY!'

England looked up at America, who was holding her deodorant like a microphone and interrupting his efforts at making breakfast by bursting into the kitchen and singing Gershwin songs at top volume.

'SHINING STAR AND INSPIRATION, WORTHY OF A _MIGHTY NATION, _OOOOHHHHF THEEEEEE I SIIIIIIIIING!' America finished her rendition by pointing dramatically at England and striking a criminally cheesy "show-biz" pose, complete with jazz-hands.

England turned away from the gas ring and leant against the counter. 'Good morning, America. It's nice to see that you've got your bounce back somewhat. Although,' he added, 'if you keep singing your ridiculous music at that volume, I may soon be wishing that you had simply stayed miserable.'

'And a good morning to you too, Mr Snark,' America replied, cheerfully elbowing him out of the way and sliding the smoking bacon onto a plate, where she smothered the worst of the flames with a tea towel. 'Have you put any coffee on yet?'

England bridled. 'There is a pot of _tea _on the table, if that would suffice – '

'Nah, on a morning after the night before like this one, you need coffee.'

'You mean _one needs_ coffee.'

'Whatever. Go chase the spiders out of your coffee machine while I rescue this breakfast, unless you have some Instant around in this place – '

'The only way that Instant coffee shall ever enter this house is over my dead body,' England said absent-mindedly, clearing the dust resignedly off the coffee machine. Luckily for you I have some ground in the fridge because Austria visited me a few weeks ago, or you would have had to "make do" with tea...'

'Mmhmm,' America, concentrating on working England's toaster rather than listening to him. 'Hey, you don't mind your eggs scrambled, do you, Artie? Or is that a bit too far on the wild side for you?'

'Sod off. A healthy appreciation for medium-boiled eggs is no bad thing.'

'You're hilarious,' America complimented him.

'Thank-you,' England replied, very sarcastically.

They relapsed into comfortable silence, broken only by the sizzle of melting butter and the _tap-tap _of England's fingers on the counter-top as he waited for the coffee to filter through.

'What I don't understand, though,' America said, wiping her eggy hand absent-mindedly on her T-shirt, 'is why _you_ haven't changed into a girl. It would make a lot more sense. I mean, for fuck's sake, you _embroider!_'

England whirled around, his teeth bared into a snarl. 'Are you suggesting that there is something inherently feminine about the art of embroidery that means that men shouldn't do it? _Are you?_'

America held her hands up appeasingly. 'I'm not saying that men _shouldn't_ do it, but come on. You've gotta admit that it's a pretty womanly hobby.'

England scowled. 'It may have been a traditional pursuit of women in the past, but in these days of gender equality, embroidery is a universal hobby. Incidentally,' he said, folding his arms, 'the UN have formed the hypothesis that this gender changing business may actually be _due_ to growing male-female equilibrium in world affairs. After all, there doesn't seem to be much correlation between this gender change and the personalities of the individual nations.'

America frowned. 'How would you know?'

'I got a long text from the UN just before you came in. I was going to tell you to check your phone, but then your "singing" drove it right out of my – '

'_What does it say?' _America had abandoned the eggs and was crowding into England's personal space, trying to grab his phone from the pocket of his jeans. 'Do they know whether it's permanent? Or who else has changed? Englaand _let me see the – '_

'For heaven's sake, America, calm yourself!' England snapped, feeling his face grow hot. He fished his mobile awkwardly out of his pocket and scowled as America wrestled it straight out of his grasp, drumming it impatiently as she searched for the text.

'You could just have checked your own phone,' he groused, but she wasn't listening. Instead, she was scrolling down the text in fascination.

'Oh my gosh, have you _seen _this list?' she said incredulously. 'Norway... and Ireland... and _Germany!_'

England choked. 'I didn't read all the way to the bottom. Please, tell me that you're joking?'

'I wish I was. That's a seriously scarring idea. Germany... as a woman...' America buried her face in her hands. 'Why would God do that? It's just too cruelly funny.'

England rubbed his temples with his fingers, torn between laughing and cringing at the absurdity of the situation. Then he smelt charring eggs behind him, and, grabbing a wooden spoon like a weapon, remembered that there were more immediate issues at hand than the fact that the world had apparently gone insane.

**~O~**

Austria didn't know what he had been expecting to see when he arrived in Berlin to see Germany. His mind had put up a sort of imaginary wall every time that he had tried to think about Germany as a... as a woman. All that he could think of was some sort of awful pantomime-Germany in drag with a lot of make-up on. _That _idea was enough to make him moan and bury his head in his hands, and so he had tried to avoid thinking about it at all.

But now, standing on Germany's doorstep, laden with quality cooking ingredients, coffee, shopping lists of everything a woman might need (courtesy of Hungary) and a list of the best department stores in Berlin (courtesy of Google), all the thoughts came flooding back. He glanced to either side of him. Hungary seemed to be in a state of terrified anticipation, and he guessed that she was thinking along the same lines as himself. She chewed her lip and glanced in his direction. He did his best to give her a comforting smile, but it turned out feeling more like a grimace.

Italy, on the other hand, seemed blissfully unconcerned. He simply hummed a cheerful tune to himself and gazed at the door. Austria wondered whether he even understood what was happening. Italy could be remarkably obtuse sometimes.

'Did you remember to bring the coffee, Mr Austria?' he said cheerfully, noticing that Austria was looking at him.

Austria sighed. 'Yes, of course, Italy. I have twenty packets of ready-to-grind beans and a coffee machine, which you saw me pack this morning.' Thank goodness his suitcase had wheels.

'Just making sure,' Italy said happily. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. 'I saw on the internet that the average Italian drinks 2 and a half cups of coffee a day, so it's important that we have lots of coffee for me to drink, veeehh!'

Austria resisted the urge to laugh hysterically and instead started drumming a Mozart piano sonata on his arm. 'Indeed,' he replied at length, staring at the door. _Where was Germany? _He had better not be too scared to see them. There was no way that Austria was going to go home without having laid his tortured visions of a female Germany to rest. He would go mad.

Germany would open the door, he told himself. He might not be a reckless idiot like Prussia, but he was brave. Austria closed his eyes at the thought of Prussia, thanking the heavens above that he was on holiday in the wilds of Canada and had not been informed – yet – of the crisis that had swept the _modern _world. The last thing that any of them needed now was an archaic nation teasing them as their genders warped overnight...

Suddenly, Austria heard the sound of a deadlock clicking, and his eyes flew open. He looked down at his hand and realised that it was trembling, whether out of nerves or excessive caffeine consumption, he wasn't sure...

And then the door was open and before them stood Germany.

Austria could have cried in relief.

She – because she _was_ quintessentially female, there was no denying it – was dressed in straight-legged khaki trousers and a baggy white T-shirt with the words 'Adidas 1979' emblazoned on it. Her feet were bare, her toenails neatly clipped, and her straight blonde hair was parted exactly down the middle. Her eyes were still the same shade of winter-sky blue as they always had been; her nose was straight and her jaw firm; she had feminine figure, doubtless, but there were still corded muscles clearly visible in her arms.

All in all, Austria thought, Germany looked like the modern-day Valkyrie of her previous self.

She was going to be fine.

He glanced to his right. Hungary stood stock-still with a gratified smile spreading across her face.

He glanced to his left just in time to see Italy start forward like a race-horse at the gun.

'GERMANY!' he cried in absolute joy, cannoning through the doorway, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her soundly on both cheeks. Germany had been looking nervous before, but now she looked flabbergasted.

'How are you?' Italy gushed – there was no other word for it – as he gazed up at Germany, who was still taller than him by at least two inches. 'You make the most wonderful girl, veehhh!'

Germany seemed to be having trouble finding words to reply with. 'I... ah... Italy! Austria, Hungary! It's... er... good to see you. Although there was really no need for you to come...'

'Nonsense,' Austria managed, waving a hand with airy dismissal. 'This is a difficult time for you, is it not? And as a fellow member of the European Union and a long-term neighbour, I consider it my duty to make sure that you weather this storm of change as smoothly as possible.'

'I suppose that there's _something_ in that,' Germany said grudgingly. She had an interesting voice, Austria thought, alto in pitch but not ridiculously low; more lilting than before, but still possessed with a soldier's bark. She would be a great singer, he was sure of it. Perhaps a few Schubert pieces, or in duet with Liechtenstein... or Italy, who looked as though he would be more than happy to oblige...

'We brought you lots of coffee, Germany, to make sure that you've got enough energy, Austria says, and then we're going to go shopping for you,' Italy said excitedly, taking Germany's hands in his own. She blushed slightly and cleared her throat.

'I'm not so sure about the shopping, Italy...'

'But it will be so fun! – '

'But some coffee does sound good,' Germany said. 'I suppose that you'd better come in, you two.' She sighed and opened the door fully, and the two of them looked at one another.

'Ladies first,' Austria said politely.

Hungary sighed. 'Oh well. I suppose that after they've been dancing around one another for half a century they're finally going to get it together... _after _they're no longer the perfect yaoi couple, of course... just my luck. And England and America too.' She shouldered her bag and stepped into Germany's house, grumbling to herself.

Austria looked after her, shaking his head, and then followed.

They could hear Italy chattering nineteen to the dozen somewhere down the hall, apparently discussing lunch arrangements.

'I tried to persuade Austria to let me bring some linguine for you, but he said that "you'd probably want something familiar and comforting after undergoing such turmoil".'

'Very nice of him,' Germany said stoically, 'but I'm perfectly capable of eating pasta.'

'Oh, you will be. I compromised and decided to bring you Gnocchi! Potato pasta, yes?' Italy's voice took on a slightly different tone. 'It's your favourite food and mine combined together, so I thought that it would be perfect...'

Austria could almost hear the blush in Germany's voice. 'That was... very thoughtful of you, Italy...' Beside him, Hungary giggled.

Italy laughed delightedly. 'I knew that you'd like it, Germany! Now, let's go and find that pasta. Mr Austria, do you know where the suitcase with the food in it?'

Austria sighed. 'I'm afraid that in your... eagerness... to get inside, you forgot to bring it in.' He nodded through the door. 'It's still out on the porch.'

'Let's go get it!' Italy exclaimed, and dragged Germany by the hand past Austria and through the door. 'Miss Hungary, you will and Mr Austria put some coffee on, yes?'

'Of course, Italy,' Hungary said. She looked up at Austria, clearly struggling not to laugh. 'Let's go and do that. I'm not sure that Italy needs any more energy, but Germany looks like... she... could do with all the caffeine she can get.'

Austria chuckled and began to wheel his suitcase through to the kitchen.

'Right, let's get this bag inside,' Germany said, outside, and gave a grunt.

'_Wow_, Germany! You're so strong...'

Behind him, Hungary sniggered. 'I suppose some things never change.'

**~O~**

'So how do I look?' America said, turning around to face England with a hand on her hip.

For the umpteenth time that day, England felt his heartbeat pick up and his mouth go dry. Sod it, did America still need to _ask _whether she looked good? She looked gorgeous in everything. She could have worn dishrags and turned it into a fashion trend.

She and England had driven up to the nearest big town to go shopping after breakfast that day, after America had declared that "if I'm going to be a girl, I might as well do it with style". The rest of the day, for England, had been something between agonising and wonderful. Watching America pose in front of the mirror in first this, and then that, and then turn around with a toss of her head and ask _him _what _he _thought... well, if he hadn't known better, he would have said that she was _trying _to seduce him.

'You look fine,' he said as tersely as he could, looking away and willing his cheeks not to turn red, 'but are you sure you'll get enough occasions to wear those jeans? I mean, it's not like you can turn up to a world meeting looking like that, is it?'

'They'll be nice just to wear around every day! And if I teamed them with a nice top, they'd be great for parties and stuff...'

England groaned. 'Please tell me that you didn't just use the word "teamed".'

America grimaced. 'Sorry, it just sorta comes with the territory.'

England sighed. 'Well, if you're sure that skinny jeans are something that will actually wear often...' He hoped to goodness that they would be, '...I think it's worth buying them. Electric blue is a good colour on you. It brings out your eyes.'

America went slightly pink, and a middle-aged shop assistant nearby smiled indulgently.

'What a lovely boyfriend you have there, my dear,' she said gleefully. 'If only my husband would come shopping with _me _from time to – '

'He's not my boyfriend!' they yelled in unison, much too loudly and the assistant looked at them in utter confusion.

'...er, girlfriend,' England said lamely.

America nodded, now blushing furiously. 'Uh, yeah! He's my, my – my gay best friend!'

Bristling with indignation, England opened his mouth to protest before realising that this was the only way that they were ever going to be able to explain this situation. 'Er... yes. I mean, the mere _idea _of going out with Ame – um, Amelia here... it strikes me as utterly unthinkable! Ha ha ha!'

He hated telling lies.

'Yes, ridiculous!' America said, nodding vehemently. 'I mean, we've known each-other for a long time, sure, and he's pretty good-looking but... nothing like that. Because he's gay. Yeah.'

The shop assistant looked between them for a moment, looking puzzled and not entirely convinced. 'Oh well. If you say so,' she said at length, and then shuffled off.

America and England looked at one another for a moment, both of them blushing.

'Your gay best friend,' England deadpanned, raising one eyebrow.

America looked embarrassed. 'Well, you do look pretty metrosexual in that green diamond-patterned jersey...'

If looks could kill, England thought, America would be very dead by now. 'Do _you _think I'm gay, then, _Amelia?_'

'Erm... maybe? No?'

'No. I _may_ have formed useful alliances without regard to gender in the past, and I do _try_ to dress presentably, but _that does not mean that I am gay_.'

America sighed and ran a hand through her hair. 'Maybe it would have been easier just to let her think that we were dating...' she trailed off, and there was a moment of silence during which both of them tried very hard not to look at one another.

'Well. Alright then.' England made his voice as business-like as he could. 'Next time anyone asks, we are going out together.'

'Okay. Right,' America mumbled, 'dating. Not gay best friend. Right.' She looked up awkwardly. 'Well, I'm going to go and get changed now, and then maybe we'll visit a shoe store before we go home...'

'Alright then,' England said. His voice sounded a little bit strangled.

'Okay, see you in a few,' America said, and dodged back into her cubicle, shutting the curtain too quickly.

England shut his eyes and let out a ragged sigh. Was there anybody else in the world who was coping with a situation as difficult as his own?

* * *

**A/N: Oh pauvre England. ****Watching a beautiful tall tanned American parade around in front of you all day... I weep for you, I really do. **

**Anyway! I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, since I really did like writing it. Fem!Germany is so much fun to imagine, especially when you introduce an amorous Italy into the mix... ah, Doitsu, you really are comedy gold. **

**And also, **_**please review! **_**It's the only payment we poor starving fanfiction authors get, and it is lovely to know what you thought. Especially if you tell me something that I can improve upon. Constructive criticism is worth its weight in gold!**

**(Heh, I just realised that since it's on a screen it weighs nothing. Oh well... you know what I mean.)**

**Oh, and one more thing... DEAR READERS. I have an Important Notice. **

**I'm going to be writing chapters on the genderbendification of three more nations after this, and I really need your opinion on which ones. **

**So far I'm thinking Denmark, either Sweden or Finland and one of the Oriental nations (like perhaps Japan or China), or maybe Romano just for the lulz. But I don't want to make any decisions without consulting you, my dear readers. I chose Germany for this chapter because a lot of people requested it, and I'm hoping for a similar influx of opinion on my next victims. So please, when you review , do let me know what you'd like!**

**Izzyxox**

* * *

**Omake – Ireland**

'_Ireland?_ No way,' Scotland said, his eyes going wide. 'That's not possible... is it?'

'Evidently it is, my dear cousin,' Ireland, said, stepping calmly past him into the house, 'and to be honest, I need your help.' She tossed her auburn curls over her shoulder and stood in the hall, sliding off her too-big-as-of-yesterday shoes to reveal pale, bony feet.

'You've turned into a woman,' Scotland said flatly. 'What on earth could _I_ help you with? if you want to get changed back, it's the UN or my fairy-magical little unicorn brother who you should be talking to, not me... Unless, my dear Ireland, you wanted help _feeling like_ a woman?' he added, with a wink and a rakish grin.

He immediately regretted that remark as shoe hit him squarely in the side of the head. 'OWW!'

'Try anything, Scotland, and I'll set the IRA on you. But actually, what I want from you is a bit like that. See, since the euro crashed, I've been a little short on money, and seeing as you're still chained to the UK... You've got loads of pounds to spare, haven't you?'

Her green eyes flicked teasingly up at him. He sent her a death glare in return.

'If you think I'm going to take you shopping, you're even more of an idiot than you were before.'

'No, no, dear,' she said, 'I don't want to go shopping. I just want a loan, that's all.'

'You're asking to borrow money?'

'Not even money! Just a couple of your skirts!'

It took him a moment to process what she'd just said, and then he looked up, murder in his eyes. His voice dropped to a hiss 'What. Did. You. Just. _Say?_'

She raised her hands defensively. 'You know, a kilt! I've always thought that tartan would suit me. Just one or two? They're your national costume, you must have loads of them banging around the place. I certainly never see you in the same one twice...'

'You _cheeky little_ – '

' – and something I've always wondered,' Ireland interrupted, with a wide, mischievous grin, 'seeing as I want to do this properly, you'll have to tell me: is anything worn under the kilt?'

'GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU BLOODY HOOLIGAN!'

Ireland dodged nimbly through the door and down the garden path, holding her too-big shoes in one hand. 'I'll take that as a no, then. I suppose that you just love your skirts too much to part with them!'

She laughed and ducked as a shoe-brush and several foul words went whistling over her head.

'I love you too, Scotlaaand!'

**Sorry. Couldn't resist. **


	3. Chapter 3: Romano

**Unrelated fun fact: Did you know that the patron Saint of Hungary is called Elizabeth? Do you think that Himaruya knew that when he was naming his characters? I like to think so. **

**Anyway. Sorry to keep you waiting. Without further ado, I present...**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

'Romana! cara!'

Silence.

'It can't be that bad!'

Nothing but the chirps of the cicadas in the olive groves behind the house.

'Open the window, and I will sing you a serenade so lovely that you forget all – '

BANG.

'One: I'm not your _cara_. Two: I'm Roma_no, _not Romana. Three: it _is _that bad. Four: Fuck off, I'd rather go deaf than listen to you sing, and five... The first four times a million!'

The window slammed shut again with such force that several birds flew away in fright.

Any normal person would have been thoroughly put off by such a tirade. However, Spain was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a normal person, and he was especially abnormal when it came to matters concerning his dear friend Romano.

Friends stood by one another in hard times, and times didn't get much harder than this.

'I glimpsed your lovely new face for a moment, Romana, and it looked beautiful to me!'

The window opened a tiny crack.

'You don't mean that, you idiot. And for the last time, _don't call me Romana. _It's not my name. Southern Italy is called Ro-ma-NO.'

'But it's gramatically correct, seeing as you're now a woma – '

'DON'T SAY IT!' Romano shrieked.

Spain threw up his hands appeasingly. 'Saying it doesn't make it more or less real.'

'Shut up!' The window slammed again. Very faintly, from inside, Spain could hear a rosary being said.

He stood beneath the window for a moment, thinking. Lovino (darn, they would have to think up a new human name for her too) was clearly not going to be cooperative unless he could somehow get her to see a bright side to all this.

But first things first: he needed to get up to that window so that he could talk to her properly.

Drainpipe?

He hadn't been a pirate for nothing. It was the work of the moment to shin up the drainpipe – not so different from a ship's mast, really – and find a couple of good hand-holds in the brickwork outside Romano's windows.

(Hmm. Lola was a nice name. Or maybe Rosa?)

'Romanoohhh! (See how nice I am!) Maybe there's a silver lining to this cloud?' Antonio settled himself more comfortably outside the window and tried to peer inside. However, Romano had her back firmly to him.

After a moment, mirthless laughter came through the window to him. 'Yeah, sure. A lightning-strike punishment, more like. I must have done something pretty damn wrong for God to do this to me. Maybe if I say enough rosaries he'll change me back.'

_Dios_, he hadn't quite realised how Catholic Romano still was, even after all these years. Although perhaps, with the Vatican City right next door, it wasn't so surprising.

'But maybe... it's... a blessing of sorts!' Antonio huffed, trying to hoist himself onto the window-ledge and almost falling. 'Think about it. Is there anything that you can do now that you're a girl that you couldn't do before? Maybe God is calling you towards a certain path.'

Romano stiffened.

Perhaps he had taken it too far; he should probably have tried to take it more seriously. Any second now, Romano would be opening the window and shove him off into the garden. Oh well. At least it would mean that he got a decent look at her face...

...But no, Romano didn't seem to be lunging for the window. Instead, her hands had fallen limply to her sides, and she was completely silent.

'Romano? Are you okay, cara?'

She turned, very slightly. Compared to the bright morning sunshine of the garden, the room was dim, and Spain still couldn't make out the details of her face.

'Spain, you didn't climb up the drainpipe, did you?' she said incredulously. 'You sound closer than before.'

If his hands hadn't been all that were keeping him from falling, he would have raised them above his head. 'Guilty as charged.'

Romano sat still for a few more moments, and Spain got the feeling that she was deliberating over something. Then, quickly and decisively, she moved towards the window.

Spain readied himself to jump back to the ground, thinking resignedly that he had fallen _way _further than this before and come to no harm and bracing himself for the unpleasant impact of feet against sun-dried ground. Romano lifted the old catch of the window, pulled back the pane and extended her hands (still brown, but smaller and more elegant than before)...

And then, just as Spain was about to jump, she wrapped both of her hands around his and pulled him forward.

'Romano? Wha – '

Although her face was still in shadow, he could tell that she was scowling. 'Come on, bastard. Are you going to hang about here all day or are you going to come in?'

**~O~**

'Oh no, Germany! Come this way! I think that this shirt would really suit you!'

Germany heaved a leaden sigh and followed Italy back over to the other side of the shop. Thankfully, Hungary and Austria had decided to let him be after only twenty-four hours of _completely unnecessary _cosseting and coffee-making (although it had been good coffee, so he hadn't complained too much). They had made him promise to call them every other day to let them know how he was holding up, a request which he was complying with more for their peace of mind than his, but other than that, they had more-or-less left him alone.

Italy, on the other hand, wouldn't budge, although Germany hardly understood why. He couldn't actually find it _fun _to go out clothes-shopping like this. A few times, Germany had been hit with the fleeting suspicion that Italy was making moves on him, but he had quickly dismissed it on the grounds that he _knew _that Italy didn't feel that way about him (that disastrous Valentine's day had taught him one thing, at least). Italy was just being stubborn and, as usual, utterly refusing to take a hint to clear out.

Germany shifted the pile of clothes from one arm to the other and frowned. 'Italy, I know that I need to have a new wardrobe of clothes, but I really don't mind whether they look fashionable or not.'

Italy threw up his hands in horror. 'Don't say such things, Germany! You must let your natural beauty shine through, and for that you need beautiful clothes.'

'You never complained about how I looked when I was a man,' Germany muttered, adding the shirt to the growing pile slung across his arm.

'Well, you were too scary back then,' Italy said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. 'I would never have dared to go shopping with you.'

Germany glared. This was the worst part of it, he thought: the immediate, unconscious changes of attitude by everyone around him, just because of this change to his outward physique. Italy no longer respected him; Austria and Hungary no longer trusted him to care for himself. Without even realising it, they were treating him as weaker, frailer, _less _than he was. They were rallying around him when all he wanted was to be left alone and _wait for things to go back to normal. _

But supposing they never did?

'Germany, are you alright?'

When Austria and Hungary had left, they had seemed reassured that he was coping well. They couldn't have been further from the truth. He wasn't alright. Of course he wasn't.

But while this lasted, he wasn't going to let anybody push him around, least of all Italy. It was time to put his foot down.

'Italy, I have enough clothes here,' he said firmly, folding them over his arm and fixing Italy with a steely gaze. 'I'm going to take them to the checkout and pay whatever exorbitant sum they charge me, and then we are going to buy some lunch. I'm going to plan out a new training regimen this afternoon, and so I'll need a fair amount of energy.'

Italy opened his mouth to argue, but Germany drew herself up and refused to break eye contact, and after a few seconds, he dropped his gaze. 'Alright, Germany. You'll look lovely in whatever you wear, anyway!'

Germany smiled slightly, and strode towards the till area. 'Thank-you, Italy.'

As they walked, Italy put his head on one side, as though considering an interesting question. After a moment, he looked up at Germany with a rather endearingly eager expression, and said: 'Germany, we should think up a new human name for you! You can't use Ludwig anymore.'

'No, I suppose not,' Germany said, latching onto the topic gratefully. Thinking up a _temporary _female name was a good, practical pastime. 'Do you have any suggestions?'

'Well, I was thinking... how about Patricia? You could shorten it to "Paddy", and that would be cute!'

'No,' Germany said, very firmly. 'I am not having a name that is in any way cute.'

Italy looked slightly disappointed for a moment, and then seemed to brighten. 'How about Lara? It's almost the same as Ludwig, so you wouldn't get mixed up...'

'That's a good back-up, but I would prefer something slightly more meaningful,' Germany said. He thought to himself.

'How about a name from _The Ring Cycle?' _Italy exclaimed. 'I heard Austria saying to Hungary that you looked like a Valkyrie, so maybe one of them?'

'He said that?' Germany felt flattered, in spite of himself.

Italy gave a comical scowl. 'Yes, but _I _thought so too, and anyway, then he said that you were _almost _as scary as Hungary, and she laughed, so don't give him _too _much credit.'

'No, of course not,' Germany said absently. 'Most of the names from the ring cycle would seem a bit unusual in everyday, speech, of course... except perhaps Freia. She's the goddess of love, youth and beauty, though, so maybe not – '

'But no, that's perfect!' Italy said, smiling delightedly. 'Freia. It suits you perfectly!'

'She was also the Goddess of war and gold, so I suppose she's not utterly unlike me,' Germany conceded to himself, 'and the name does have a nice ring to it. Freia Bellschimdt.'

'Perfect!' Italy said, laughing delightedly. Germany couldn't help but smile at the expression on his face.

'It'll do.'

**~O~**

'And the best thing about it is,' England said, shaking with laughter, 'that the Frog has to admit _that his people like it. _It's not just tourists going to that restaurant. Matt Ong has born-and-bred Parisians fighting for seats at Albion every bloody night!'

'Priceless,' chortled America, leaning weakly back in her seat and taking a large, noisy slurp of her milkshake. 'That'll teach _him _to insult our food. Just let him say that fish and chips aren't the best thing that God created. Just let him try. Other than hamburgers and ice-cream. But that's a given.'

They were sitting at a window table in a small fish-and-chip place in Southend. The demolished remains of a massive main course lay in front of them, and they were rounding off the lunch with a milkshake each before heading to the sea-front.

Despite America's constant reminders that it _wasn't _a date, just a fun trip to lift her spirits, England felt happier than he had done in years. Chasing seagulls, going on fairground rides, dropping lines for crabs on the jetty, eating fish-and-chips... There hadn't been a moment of the day that he hadn't enjoyed, and he didn't want it to end.

He had to admit to himself that it was America's presence that had put the icing on the cake. She had been the one who had suggested dropping their line in the spot where they'd caught the biggest crabs, shamed him into coming on the ride that went upside-down at the fairground and then charmed the ice-cream vendor who'd been watching them into giving them each a Cornetto for free. She had dragged him by the hand from place to place with an enthusiasm so infectious that it made him smile; long after his own energy would have been used up, she continued to recharge him with a joke or a suggestion or just a well-timed smile.

She was still his old America. There was no doubt about that at all – but this ordeal seemed to be bringing out the best in her. Her cheeks and nose were the same red, and her hair had the same sunny sheen, even when it was tousled by the wind. However, in some ways, she seemed different, too.

However, this ordeal seemed to have made her less abrasive than usual, and more perceptive and open. Instead of thumping him or calling him a hobbling old man when he lagged behind her long strides, she slowed up or turned to walk backwards so that they could continue their conversation. Instead of scorning him as a coward and leaving him behind when he hesitated at the entrance to the biggest roller-coaster, she laughed and pulled him forward, telling him to man up because, going on a fairground ride was statistically safer than crossing the road.

England loved Southend. He loved seagulls and leaden skies and fish-and-chips. Today, though, all of that seemed to have blurred slightly in his mind. Today, it was merely a back-drop for America.

'Hey, Arthur. You OK?' America had tilted back her seat and was watching him, her head slightly on one side.

He sighed. 'I'm fine, really. I was just thinking... thinking about how much fun I had today.'

He couldn't tell her that he was sighing because he felt as though he was in love, could he? That would ruin everything.

'Yeah, me too,' America smiled, and moved her foot forward under the table to prod his gently. 'I feel a lot better already.' She looked up at him, and England felt his heart beat slightly faster as he noticed that she was blushing. 'I don't think that I could've held up this well on my own.'

England rolled the base of his milkshake glass between his hands on the table; its smooth surface chilled his fingers, but he didn't let go. He tried to gather his thoughts to give a suitable reply. 'I'm really... really glad that I've been of help to you, A – Amelia. I know that this isn't easy for you, and so... it means a lot to me that you came to me for support.'

He forced himself to look up at her, and she was so beautiful that he couldn't help but smile. 'Do you remember when we had fish and chips together in Boston, when you were just a tiny thing?' he said, changing the subject before he could say something that he would regret. 'You asked me whether this was what people called 'delicious', and Francis has been blaming me for it ever since...'

'Hmmyeah,' America said, looking distracted. 'I think I remember. It was a really, really long time ago, though. We've both changed a lot since then.'

England looked at her, tall and strong and beautiful (and _female_)_, _and he couldn't help but agree. She wasn't his child or his sibling anymore. She was his friend. She was his equal. She was...

'Can I ask you one more favour, Artie?' she said suddenly, looking straight at him with a determined expression.

England laughed, although his breathing was suddenly shallow. 'Well, it depends what it is.'

''Will you come to New York with me until the UN meeting's over?' she said in a rush, clasping her hands tightly together in front of her on the table.

England waited for the inevitable: for her to start telling him that she only needed him there for the emotional support against jerks like France, that he was better at filing and there was a ton of paperwork that they needed to go through, that there were a thousand and one reasons why he _had _to be there that had nothing to do with her own personal feelings for him.

But she didn't.

'You want me... to come back to New York with you?' he said weakly, feeling heat flood to his face.

She just nodded.

It had been a simple question, and so England gave a simple answer.

'No, Amelia.'

She looked as though she had been punched. 'Wha... What?'

England took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, but it's for your own good. You need to learn to cope with this problem on your own, without support from me. You've always wanted to be independent, and you can't let yourself forget that.'

Her cheeks were flushed red, and she was biting her lip so hard that it had turned white. Her hands were clasped hard together, one thumb drumming on top of the other. For one horrible moment, England thought that she was going to cry. But instead, her blue eyes hardened, and after a moment, she stood up, gathering her things together quickly.

'You're going right now?' England exclaimed, leaning forward.

'I don't see why not,' she said coldly, 'there's nothing much more for me to do here. Thanks for the emotional support, Arthur. I've had a lot of fun. You've been a real gentleman about all this.' Her tone of voice and words were completely at odds.

'But you don't have a way back into my house to get your things!' he protested, scraping at the barrel.

She snorted and dug around in her pocket for a moment before producing his spare set of keys, dangling them in the air between them for a second. 'I thought that I'd better have them with me in case we got separated somehow... Guess I was right. I'll put them back on the hook when I leave, don't worry.' Then she got out her wallet and put two twenty-pound notes down on the table. 'That should cover my half, anyway. I wouldn't want you to pay _for _me, or anything.'

'America – '

'It's _Amelia, _you douchebag!' she snapped. 'Although I doubt you'll forget it.' She strode past him. 'Don't bother calling to see whether I've got back safely. I'll be fine.'

England tried to rally his thoughts, to somehow put things right again, but instead, he simply nodded. There was no way that he could tell her. 'Goodbye, then. Amelia. I'll see you at the meeting in two weeks.'

She didn't answer, and if she could sense his eyes following her as she walked away from him, she didn't show it. One moment, she had been there, smiling, laughing, and then she was gone. England almost thought that she might never have been there at all.

He slumped forward in his seat, burying his head in his hands, and let out a ragged sigh. He had ruined it. He had ruined everything. He was so cowardly, so selfish. She would certainly be better off without him.

What else could he have done, though? If he had said yes, he would have gone mad. He would have signed up for two weeks more of agonising closeness, of dancing around her, of lingering touches and shared glances that he was never quite sure existed outside his own mind. He would never have dared to confess his feelings, and he didn't want her to think that he was a coward. He would never have known whether she simply saw him as a mentor, an old friend, or whether she saw him as he saw her. He didn't know whether he was about to fall in love with her, or whether he was already falling. Either way, it was too much for him.

It was better like this, he told himself. It was better that she should learn to be her own person, even as a woman. She didn't need him. She had never needed him. He should remember that.

England looked up from his hands, and waved the waiter over for his bill.

**~O~**

'So, Romano,' Spain said, after his eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room. 'Why did you pull me in here?'

As soon as Romano had got him through the window, she had turned away again, folding herself onto the floor to sit, tense and cross-legged, her back firmly facing him. Her clothes looked baggy on her new, smaller frame, and her hair was messy. One stubborn strand had sprung away from the rest and bobbed on its own, as it always did, still swaying slightly from her movement. Spain grinned, irrationally happy that Romano's hair should have remained the same, though the rest of her had changed.

'I wanted to know what you think,' Romano said, her voice taut. 'I want to know whether this is a disaster.'

Spain shook his head. 'Of course it's not a disaster. You got the UN text. They said that it's happened to loads of countries.'

'That doesn't mean that it's not a distaster!' Romano snapped.

Spain settled himself more comfortably on the carpet, feeling confused. 'Well. What does make it a disaster, then?'

'I might be hideously ugly.'

'I bet you're not. You were never ugly before, so why should you be ugly now?'

There was a long pause.

Spain sighed. 'Look, if you're so worried, just turn around and I'll tell you what I think.'

'I don't want to.'

He frowned. 'Why not?'

Romano took a deep breath, her shoulders rising as her lungs filled with air. 'Because... because... because I'm scared.'

That brought Spain up short. Romano had _been _scared lots of times, of course. France had scared her; Germany had scared her; Turkey had scared her; Spain himself had been able to scare her, once upon a time. But Romano had _never_ admitted to being scared before. She had always stood up straight, her voice swelling with bravado, and told them, even as tears gathered in her eyes and her hands trembled, that they were idiots, bastards, pathetic excuses for nations who could _never _frighten her in a million years.

What on earth had possessed her to change her attitude now?

For a moment, he wondered whether being a woman had made her faint-hearted and more willing to admit weakness. Then he felt ashamed of himself. That sort of thinking wasn't acceptable. It had no place in today's world. Romano was as strong as she had ever been. Perhaps she was strong enough now to admit that she had weaknesses.

'Romano,' Spain said, more softly than before, 'tell me. Why are you scared?'

'Spain,' she said, and he was shocked to hear a tremble in her voice. 'I've always been scared. I'm scared because I don't want you to think that I'm ugly.'

'Does it really matter that much to you?' Spain said, feeling concerned. Romano and his brother loved beauty. He knew that. They hadn't been the birthplace of the renaissance for nothing. However, if Romano thought that good looks were the only things that mattered in a woman... well, that wasn't the sort of thing that Spain would have expected of him.

Romano sat up a little bit straighter. 'Doesn't it matter to _you_?'

Spain felt indignant. 'Well, of course, but – Romano, I don't care whether you're beautiful or not! You'll still be my Romano on the inside, and that's what matters. You could have one eye and webbed feet for all I care. You'd still be my friend.'

Romano's shoulders slumped a little bit. 'Right. Your friend.'

Spain breathed out heavily through his mouth, fluttering his fringe. He felt as though there was something about this situation that he was missing, but he was too confused to try and piece it together, and Romano wasn't giving him any clues. 'Look, Romano, will you just turn around already so that I can have a normal conversation with you?'

Romano gave a heavy sigh. 'I suppose there's no reason why I shouldn't.' And so, without ceremony, she placed her hands behind her and swivelled herself so that she was facing Spain.

'Great,' he said, as she turned. 'Now we can talk about important stuff, like your new nam –'

He was speechless.

'Romano...'

Her golden-brown eyes widened, wary. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing had ever been more _right. _

How had he never noticed it before?

All those years of looking after her, as a child, as a boy, and he had been utterly blind. He felt as though he had never really seen Southern Italy before, and something was being stripped away from his eyes. He had never really seen the way that her eyes shone, or the exact chestnut-shade of her hair, or the way that the left-hand side of her mouth turned up when she was puzzled or angry. But suddenly, there it all was, and he couldn't ignore it: the plain, solid, undeniable fact.

'Romano, you're beautiful!'

Her hands were already rising, moving to cover her face again, but he reached out and tugged them away. He found himself laughing with breathless incredulity. 'Romano, I think that you've always been beautiful, but I never really noticed it before. _How did I not notice it before?'_

'Spain,' she said, turning red, 'Spain, you'd better not just be saying this to make me feel better.'

He shook his head vehemently. 'No, not in a million years! But, Romano...'

'You've never said anything before,' she said, looking down and away from him, avoiding his eyes. 'I've been waiting for years, Spain, even though I hated myself for it. I've always wanted you to...'

'To think that you're beautiful?'

She shook her head slightly. 'I suppose. But... but like you said: that's not the most important thing.'

Spain leant forward and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. 'What _is_ the most important thing, then? Romano, what do you want?'

She closed her eyes, and leant towards him, lifting a hand to place it on the side of his face. He could feel the pulse in her wrist, agitated, beating like the wings of a tiny bird. He felt her lips brush against his ear, and shivered. When she spoke, her words were quiet and hesitant. He could feel years behind these words, years of becoming sick of waiting. She sounded like a person who was taking all their courage in both hands.

'I want you to love me, because I love you.'

She pulled back far enough for them to kiss, but no more.

As Spain wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, he wondered how he could have let this happen: how he could have let his Romano wait for so long without noticing that he was pining for him. Who knew what else he had missed, over the years? He must have been living in some sort of dull dream to have let this happen, and loves Romano all the more for awakening him.

He had never felt so alive before. She skimmed her palms along his back and sighed against his lips, and he breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of dust and sunshine and food so fresh and simple as to be almost alive. He pressed a gentle kiss to her jaw, just below her ear, and ran a hand through her hair, his fingers skimming over her scalp, catching in that one unruly strand that never would lie flat.

'Chi – Chigi - Spain!' Romano yelped, clenching her fists against his back. Spain frowned and pulled away for a moment, feeling bewildered. All he had done was to touch –

Oh.

Suddenly, laughter was bubbling up inside him. 'Everything makes _sense_ now, Romano!' He chuckled, slightly breathless. 'You should have said something before now – '

'Like... what?' Romano panted, pulling away from him and folding her arms, '"Don't pull on my hair, Spain, it turns me on?" _That_ would have gone down well. You probably would just have done it more to annoy me.'

Spain chuckled to himself. 'I'm not saying that I won't now.'

'Bastard,' Romano muttered mutinously, glaring at him.

'And you wonder why I never realise that you liked me, when you use language like that?' Spain smirked.

'Maybe it's just because _you're _an oblivious idiot!'

Spain shook his head fondly. 'You're so cute, Romano. Although actually, we probably shouldn't call you that anymore.'

Romano sighed and nodded, sitting up properly and straightening her rumpled clothes. 'Any ideas for good girl's names?'

'Well...' Spain said slowly, 'how about Katarina, or Chiara? I've always liked that name.'

Romano nodded. 'Chiara'll do as a human name, I suppose. But everyone calls me Romano. Southern Italy is a bit of a mouthful, so...'

'Well, why not just "Romana"?' Spain said, leaning back in his chair. 'I don't see any problem with that.'

'You don't think it sounds a bit... girly?'

'Well, you are a girl,' Spain said matter-of-factly. 'So no.'

'Okay then.' Romano - _Romana_ – sighed. 'You know, even if this is a gift from God or a sign of global equality or whatever, it seems a bit tough.'

Spain reached over and patted her consolingly on the shoulder. 'Hopefully it'll get easier, in time.'

Romana looked up at him with a small smile. 'It was actually what you said about it being a call from God that made me brave enough to tell you... how I felt.'

'You mean, you think God turned you into a girl so that we could be together?' Spain said, slightly disapprovingly. 'Romana, that shouldn't have been an issue for you. Gay marriage is legal in my country! Just because your church doesn't – '

'I know, I know,' Romana said, holding up her hands. 'But... centuries of being told that it was wrong are hard to overcome. This has made it a lot easier for me to tell you how I feel.'

Spain shuffled so that he was facing the same way as her, and then put an arm around her waist. 'I hope that you would've said something eventually, though. Or that I would have realised myself.'

Romana leant into him, ever so slightly. 'Yeah, me too. But I'm just glad that it's happened at all. The details aren't important.'

He rested his cheek on top of her head, and she felt for one of his hands. It was strange, her thought, how simple it suddenly was. After years and years of snubbing and fighting, here they were. Like a ripened fruit, plucked from a tree, they were ready.

Through the window, he could see a chink of blue sky.

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah, sorry. I know that it's clunking and riddled with mistakes and whatever else, but I've already procrastinated for _way _too long, and so I'm just going to get this chapter up on the internet and throw caution to the winds. There will probably be two more chapters after this one, and although I've almost decided which characters I'm going to bend, I'll still change them if I get an overwhelming flow of requests for other nations. XD

**NB: 'Matt Ong and the Parisian restaurant Albion'.  
**Matt Ong is a British chef who has opened a restaurant called Albion (which is an old-Irish(?) word for 'England') in Paris which has become a roaring success with French and English diners alike. I think that England would undoubtedly feel very smug about this, especially since the restaurant serves typically English dishes. I never thought that I'd see the day when rhubarb and custard tart and toad-in-the-hole were scoring on the streets of Paris, but somehow, here it is.

**Please review, I'll love you forever! Thanks!**

**(That was mature.)**

**(The world really needs a sarcasm font.)**

**(Shutting up now.)**

**(Bye!)**


	4. Chapter 4: Finland and Sweden

**Chapter 5 – Finland and Sweden**

'Hana, I am never, never, _never _going to live this down.'

Over her thousand-odd years of existence, Finland had had quite a lot of experience at coping with mistakes. She had been wrong more times than she cared to remember, and from an early age she had learnt to admit that she was wrong (at least, until the next ideology came along and uprooted everything again).

But this – _this – _might be her hardest fall yet.

Finland gulped and slid her thumb across the screen of her phone, unlocking it for the umpteenth time that morning, adamant that this time she would swallow her nerves and her pride and call Sweden already. The longer she put it off, the harder it would be.

'See that exponential curve of conversation-difficulty blossoming right there? That's what you're on right now,' she said to herself in her most bullying voice. 'So man up, Tino – ' _oh, the irony _' – and make the damn call.' She should really think up a new name for herself. Tina? Tanja? Tatiana? Tatiana had a certain ring to it.

Almost as though he could tell the direction of his owner's thoughts – namely, off on a tangent from their intended track – Hana barked and licked the hand holding Finland's phone. She sighed.

'Right you are, you smart, rational animal. I need to get this over with.' Very slowly, she tapped in Sweden's number, and, with a _totally _steady hand, lifted the phone to her ear.

One ring.

Two rings. Finland willed herself not to press the end call button.

Three rings. Four rings.

On the seventh ring, just as Finland's stretched nerves were beginning to twang with irritation, there was a crackle, a moment's echoing pause(phone lines across the arctic circle weren't the greatest on earth), and then, finally...

'H'lo?'

Finland started talking with the speed of a racehorse after the starting gun. 'Hi-there-Sweden-and-yes-my-voice-does-sound-higher-than-usual-because-as-you-might-'ve-heard-I've-become-a-girl-like-Germany-America-and-the-rest-according-to-the-UN-anyway-and-um-I-suppose-this-means-you-were-right-about-the-wife-thing-which-is-pretty-embarassing-and-so... yeah.'

There was a very long silence on the other end of the phone, and then Sweden said, 'What?'

'I'M A GIRL!'

Sweden drew in his breath. 'So 'm - ' there was a giant, resounding crackle.

'_what did you say, _Sweden? You're breaking up on me...'

''M just c'ming down fr'm a logging trip. I just str'ted to get sign'l again...' There was the sound of a man talking in the background. Someone laughed.

'You mean you don't know what's been happening over the last few days?'

'Aside fr'm the obvious?' Finland heard the sound of an engine in the background, its revving deepened by the poor sound quality. Something seemed off about the relationships of the noise, though she couldn't quite place it. Something had distorted, something had changed...

'Sweden, what do you – '

'H's someth'ng happn'd t'you t – ' A massive rush of white noise.

'_Sweden?' _

And then the signal well and truly cut off.

Finland put the phone back in its cradle gently, as though laying down a potentially explosive material. She half-hoped that it would ring again; the idea of confronting Sweden, now that he knew the basic facts, seemed less daunting, though only by a small degree. She drew her knees up under her chin and pulled Hana into her lap, petting the soft fur absently to reassure herself as much as to provide comfort.

'It was never going to be easy.'

_Dear America, _

_I'm sorry, I really am. I just don't want you to have more difficulty than necessary adjusting to your new gender, and I think it would be easier if we didn't rush into – _

_Dear America,_

_I apologise for my haste in turning down your offer to visit New York before the world meeting. If you would be willing to accept me after our somewhat stormy parting in Southend, I would be more than happy to – _

_Dear America,_

_The thing is, I don't want to take this too fast. I've been waiting far too long for a chance with you for it to be a casual thing, and – _

England slammed his laptop shut in despair. His useless attempts at drafting a reconciliatory email to America would go with him to the grave. He should just wait for the meeting and let things cool off, and give things another go then.

But America was _such _a grudge-holder; one only had to consider the Fourth of July to see that. She might hold this against him for decades. The ground that he had steadily been gaining, his slow work at building a stable friendship with her, almost a _century_ of decreasingly prickly relations... he could lose it all because of this silly contra-temps. He should do _something, _although he wasn't at all sure what.

Perhaps a well-thought-out gift would do the trick. He hadn't sent a symbolic bouquet in years, but he was sure that he could remember the basics of the nuanced language of flowers well enough to piece something meaningful together... and then send America a note with a link to the relevant Wikipedia page along with the present*.

England sighed and buried his head in his hands. 'What a God-awful mess this is,' he muttered into his palms, gazing out of his study window at the teeming rain outside. America seemed to have taken the good weather with her, drawing the sunshine out of his rainy islands for good.

England snorted to himself. Symbolic.

Germany had just finished cleaning his teeth and changed into his new pyjamas – or rather, a pair of leggings and plain red T-shirt – when a knock came at his bedroom door.

Thinking to himself that if it Italy was outside, he would teach him once and for all what was meant by the phrase "personal boundaries". He had a frown ready on his face and his feet apart in an ideal yelling stance when the door opened to reveal, not Italy, but Hungary, in a fetching green nightgown, with a hairbrush in her hand and a smile on her face.

'Good evening, Germany,' she said politely. 'I was wondering whether I could ask you a favour?'

Somewhat taken aback, Germany adjusted his expression to one of polite caution. 'Of course.'

'Would you please brush my hair through for me? It's got awfully tangly in this windy weather, and I can't reach around the back in some places...'

'I'm not sure if I'll be any good to you, Hungary.' Germany allowed himself an ironic smile. 'I don't have much practice in hair-styling.'

Hungary waved away his protests and stepped closer to the door. 'Come now, if you can assemble a gun, you a can get a few tangles out of my hair. And besides, it'll be good practice for you if you ever decide to grow it long.'

Germany sighed. So this was what it was all about: Hungary wanted him to brush her hair as though they were teenage girls at a sleepover because she was trying to teach him how to be a woman. How to fulfil his role as a feminine Nation with long hair that took forever to style, and a sea-green night-gown that would probably ride up and feel uncomfortable, and a fashionably slim figure that she doubtless had to keep an eye on, day in, day out, without a chance to get carried away and have too much beer and bratwurst. How to be what he felt that he so quintessentially wasn't.

'Come in then, and I'll see what I can do,' Germany said resignedly. Hungary smiled graciously and moved into the room. As he watched her seat himself on his bed and look over at him, he had to remind himself that now that he was a woman, there was no need for there to be anything unusual in another woman coming into his room and doing that.

'Here, take this,' Hungary said, handing him her brush. 'It's my industrial-strength one, for really tough tangles. No-one messes with this thing.'

Germany looked at the square, spiky object for a moment. 'I'm not surprised.'

'Frying pan by day, hair-brush by night,' Hungary chuckled, 'both are excellent weapons, and your brother has been on the receiving end of both of them more than once.'

Germany decided not to think too hard about that remark. 'That does not surprise me in the slightest. The rivalry between you and Prussia goes back a long way.'

Hungary nodded. 'Since we were both children.' She sighed, and there is a trace of nostalgia in her voice. 'We used to have hunting competitions and shoot each-other to trees. I taught him how to ride, and he taught me how to use an axe. I never quite had the arm strength to beat him with an axe, but then he still can't stay on a horse after a couple of bucks, so I suppose we're even.'

Germany laughed in spite of himself. 'It doesn't surprise me that Prussia can't out-ride you. They say that you were born in the saddle, Hungary.'

'I've been riding with my people for as long as I can remember,' Hungary conceded, 'even though for a few centuries I had to ride side-saddle.'

'Only a few?'

Hungary bit her lip and paused for a moment before replying. 'Until I hit puberty, it was assumed that I was male. I could get away with a lot until then.'

Germany glanced at her sidelong. 'Did you think that you were male?'

Hungary laughed, but Germany noticed a trace of bitterness to her voice. 'I had always known that I was different, but if you're treated like a male for hundreds of years, it's difficult to behave differently. It was hard to adjust when I began to... change. I'd barely ever had the experience of that sort of limitation, and it made me angry and stubborn. Things are much better for women now, though; and even before the feminist movement I fought tooth and nail for as much liberty as I could get.'

'Did you ever consider... just hiding it?'

'You mean cross-dressing?'

Germany nodded, and began to gently draw the brush through Hungary's hair, bracing his other hand against the top of her head in order to stop it from pulling.

Hungary sat back and considered. 'You know, Germany, after I had left childhood, I don't think that I did. Of course, in the past, it would have been a lot harder than it is now. But even given that... I was always proud of being a woman. It meant that I had to fight harder for things that a lot of the other nations took for granted... it meant that there were, and are, a lot of expectations of how I should dress and act and live that are stifling and a real pain in the... neck. Sometimes – often – I've hated being what society considers to be feminine... and pretty much always I dislike my periods,' Germany could see Hungary's cheek push back slightly as she smiled. 'But I don't hate being a woman. It's a part of what my country is, and of who I am.'

There was a long moment of silence, during which the only sound was the rustle of the brush through Hungary's hair, and the slight creak of the wind in the eaves above them.

'Why did you grow your hair long?' Germany asked abruptly. 'It is so much more convenient to have short hair.'

Hungary shrugged. 'I've had it short for centuries at a time when I was younger. I had it short in the twenties, and shortish in the sixties and seventies. I've grown in out again how, but I'll probably end up cutting it off at some point. It's just for a change.' She twists her head back to grin at him. 'Remember when England got that Mohican when he was going through his Punk phase?'

Germany laughed in spite of himself. 'And every time he turned up to a meeting America would ruffle it and England would threaten to set Demons on him. Those were the days.' He thinks for a moment. 'I did suit him, though.'

'I know, it's weird.' Hungary sniggered. 'Especially when you see him now, all prim and upright with his charcoal suits and diamond-patterned green jumpers.'

Germany smiled for a moment, and then remembered something. 'Speaking of England... Apparently America's been to see him this week. For emotional guidance through this mess, I suppose.'

Hungary let out a massive squeal, and all but whirled around on the bed to face him, dragging the hairbrush out of his hand and letting it dangle from her hair. 'Really? Are you _sure?' _She leant forward, her eyes shining. 'Oh my gosh, after all these years... America is _finally _getting it together! I bet that they'll be a couple by the end of the week!' The hairbrush fell out of her hair and onto bed with a soft _plop_, and Germany seized it defensively.

'Hungary, it seems to me more likely that they will end up arguing horribly and America will head back to New York in high dudgeon. Which will make the upcoming world meeting even more chaotic than it seems set to be already.' Germany's brow furrowed. '_Even _more chaotic than usual.'

Hungary's face fell. 'You think so?'

Germany shrugged. 'I don't know. You might be right.' He was about to make a remark about women having higher levels of emotional intelligence than men before realising that this was not longer a factor queering the pitch for them.

Hungary looked thoughtful. 'Tell you what. I bet you... hmm, world currency... twenty dollars that England and America will be an item by the time that the world meeting rolls around.'

Germany smiled in spite of himself. 'I'm not usually a betting ma... the betting type, but in this situation... alright. Twenty dollars.'

Hungary held out a hand. 'Shake on it?'

Germany took her hand. He noted within himself, in a detached manner, that the physical effect of touching a woman – the tensing of muscles, the slight increase of heart rate – had all but left him. In contrast, he had to admit to himself that Italy's charms, his bright eyes and clear voice, previously only vaguely observed, were clear to him now in a way that they never had been before. Even Austria's sophisticated demeanour and dark, clear eyes held his attention in a way that they never had done before.

These thoughts, while they held him fascinated, were also unsettling, a cause for mourning, even. Hungary had said that her gender, her body, was a part of who she was. In undergoing such a change, had he lost a part of himself? In coming to life, had this new femininity caused some sort of death?

As though sensing where his thoughts were, Hungary laid a hand on his arm. 'I'm sorry for what you're going through, Germany. I wouldn't presume to understand, but...'

Germany shook his head. 'On the contrary, Hungary, your advice has already been helpful. And heartening. If this is permanent... I think that your help in adjusting will be invaluable to me, and to the other affected nations, for that matter.'

Hungary's mouth quirked up into an ironic smile. 'You never know, Germany. World affairs are always fluctuating. There could be an extremist Muslim or Christian takeover any time. Women's rights would go right back down again, and the magic spell might reverse itself!'

Germany raised his hands defensively. 'You know I don't want – '

'I know, I know,' Hungary sighed, taking her hairbrush from him gently. 'But I can't help but feel that this... what's happening to you... try thinking about it from the perspective that it's been hard-won.' She stood up. 'You have freedoms now that you would never have had if you had been a woman a hundred years ago. It could have been a lot worse.'

Germany nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and utterly unsure of what he would say if he did.

'My hair is much better now,' Hungary commented, after a moment's silence, running her hands through it. The golden-brown, silken strands caught the light as they slipped between her fingers. 'Thanks a lot for doing that, Germany. I owe you one.'

'It was no problem,' Germany managed, after a moment. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

'Take care,' Hungary murmured, opening the door gently. She looked back at him for a moment, and there was something tender, almost motherly, in her expression. He thought that she was going to say something more, but instead, she simply pulled the door shut behind her with a soft _click. _Germany listened to her walk away down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against his polished wooden floors.

Even once he had switched the slight off, Germany found it difficult to fall asleep.

'I've decided. I'm going to stay Lovino,' Romano said.

Spain twisted around in the passenger seat to look at her. 'Alright then. Can I ask why?'

'Well, it's my name. Girls call themselves boys' names all the time. Why shouldn't I?' she replied, almost petulantly.

Spain grinned. 'Sure. Lovino's a fine name. Keep it as long as you want to.'

Romano nodded, keeping her eyes on the twisting road ahead. 'I'm glad that you feel that way.'

The road stretched ahead of them, dusty and potholed, imperfect and twisting, up and down through vineyards and olive groves, tacking along hillsides so steep they were almost gorges, greyish-white against the green-brown of the dry Southern grass.

'All roads lead to Rome,' Spain said, almost dreamily.

Romano smiled. 'They all do here, anyway. Not much else to see in this damn place.'

Spain frowned. 'Don't be like that. Your country is awesome, cara.'

Romano sighed. 'It's a fucking basket case. If it wasn't for my brother's revenues...'

'You and your brother have to support one another. That doesn't make you any less important. Without Rome, where would he be?'

Romano scowled. 'You tell me. He managed fine until the unification.'

'So did you,' Antonio said, eyeing her with half-closed eyes. 'But you're better as a team. When you pull together...'

'...We just about manage to keep our end up in the damn eurozone.'

'Well, what more do you want?'

Romano sighed. 'I don't know. Nothing. Something.' She glanced sidelong at Spain, opened her mouth as though to speak, and then seemed to think better of it.

'You can't want the empire back, not after all this time,' he argued stubbornly, in that characteristically bullish way of his. 'You saw the way your grandfather ended up.'

Romano was silent for a long moment, and then said, slowly: 'I want to people to look to us as an example. And not just a culinary one,' she added sharply, as though sensing the joke on the tip of Spain's tongue. 'That's the other reason why I'm not totally pissed off about this,' she said, gesturing up and down her body; Spain's eyes flickered down, following her hands, and then back up to her frowning face. 'Because I want to be the pioneer of something again. And this is a pretty damn good cause, if I had to pick one.'

'Do you feel guilty about the way that we used to treat women? The way we still do treat them?' Spain asked, drumming a staccato rhythm on the leather of the seat.

'Watching Iceland and Finland and those guys, I'd felt bad about it for a while. I still do now. But mostly – mostly I just feel that – we should stop angsting and _do_ something about it. Both for myself and for the rest of you.' Her lips quirked up into a smile. 'But whatever it is, I definitely feel better equipped to do something about it now.'

Both of them laughed for a moment. The sound faded away into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the thrum of the engine.

'I wish I knew what the logic was behind the change,' Spain said musingly.

'Maybe it's some kind of optimal influence thing, in which case I guess I'm flattered. Hell, maybe there's no logic at all.'

'Maybe we'll be able to pick out a pattern when we get to the conference.'

Romano suddenly grinned widely. 'I _can't wait _to see how that potato bastard is coping. He was about as macho as you can get without being a testosterone supplement pill.'

'Don't be mean to Germany!' Spain chided her. 'Just because he isn't as in touch with his feminine side as you are – '

'Out-of-touch. It's fucking physically impossible to call him 'she'!' Romano exclaimed. 'Although not for my weird little brother. The way Feli was going on about it on the phone yesterday... Bet you that they're a weird semi-homosexual item by the time we get to New York.'

Spain shook his head. 'No way. Germany's a tough cookie, and awkward into the bargain. It'll take him at least a month to wear... her... down.'

'Germany's had a thing for my brother since forever, though, it was the creepiest thing.'

'He has?' Spain said, looking genuinely surprised.

Romano took her hand off the wheel for a highly necessary facepalm. 'You have so little skill for taking in the atmosphere, Spain, it's a wonder your lungs function. Germany's fancied my brother _ad infinitem, _it's only down to me that he's kept his distance this long.' She chose to ignore Spain's snort. 'Though this isn't the way he probably expected things to turn out. Or maybe it is. I can't fathom the mind of the Krautmeister.'

Spain folded his arms with a sceptic air. 'I don't reckon so. For what it's worth, I bet you fifty euro that Italy's still dancing around... _her... _by the end of the meeting.'

'Fifty euros?' Lovino smiled at the challenge. 'You're on.'

'Deal?'

'E 'fatta!' she exclaimed, letting go of the wheel to shake Spain firmly by the hand.

Soon, sooner than Finland had expected, there was a sound of a key in the door and boots on the doormat.

She stood up, sat down again, bit her lip, took a deep breath, very slowly stood up _again, _and then, putting her feet down on the ground with more force than was strictly necessary, began to make her way towards the door.

She supposed that this day had been a long time in coming.

Ever since they had met, searching for warmth in the cold and labour of their first shared household, she had, in some indefinable way, felt drawn to Sweden. Although his cold looks and long silences scared her, and she found his strength intimidating, she liked him and admired him, and over the years the two of them had become closer and closer.

They had been living together in a house fifty miles outside Stockholm for almost twenty years now. Finland, cold and lonely one Winter, had decided to come down at Christmas and pay Sweden a visit, and somehow she had never left. There hadn't been anything explicitly romantic between them, although she had always been acutely aware of that People Talked. They spent weeks, sometimes months apart on respective business, and Finland invited Sweden up to her place almost every year, but they had never made their cohabitation official. It had simply been a product of the cold, and the loneliness and shared experience which ultimately tied all the nations together.

Finland felt that matters would surely come to a head now. Sweden was so patient, so persistent, setting himself against the rocks of their existence like an icy winter sea; despite the moments of discomfort – which were rare now, since she had learnt that he meant her (personally) no harm – she felt that she was happier with him, more peaceful, than she had been at any other point in her existence.

Sealand sometimes dropped by on them for weeks on end, 'paying a State visit', as he called it, and then they played the part of a family, visiting zoos and historic sides and sledging together. She had certainly been called his father at least once, but if she had occasionally caught curious glances or interested smiles at their strange trio (quartet, if you counted Hana), she hadn't felt the need to mention it to Sweden.

They didn't always tell one another if they were going away, and there was a tacit agreement between them not to ask too many questions about one another's lives. For her part, Finland had always felt that the level of attachment implied by caring about the details of Sweden's day-to-day was closer than she had dared to get.

_Had _dared.

But now, this _change _was bringing matters to a head, and in some ways she was glad of it. She had always felt sexually confused when she reflected upon the level of closeness that people seemed to suspect that she had with Sweden: her orientation had always been towards women, and while there was no denying that Sweden was a handsome man, he had done no more than incite her curiosity when she had been a man herself. She felt certain that this aspect of herself would have changed along with the rest of her: she had been a straight man, so surely she would be a straight woman.

'Sweden,' she called, walking forward into the hall. 'Sweden, we need to talk.'

He was faced away from her, peeling off his layers of gloves and his shapeless anorak, his snow boots already brushed and placed just inside the door. In the dim light of the hall, she couldn't quite tell, but it seemed to her that he looked somehow different; his clothes seemed to fit him less well, for one thing. She remembered the sound distortion on the phone, and suddenly, the pieces began to fall with into place.

'Sweden has it – '

'It happened to me too.'

Sweden turned around, and Finland's jaw dropped, and she realised two things very quickly.

Firstly: her sexuality had _not _done an about-face turn with her gender.

Secondly: Sweden was an absolutely beautiful woman.

Even with her hair cut in a severe, masculine style, wearing square-framed glasses and an oversized wood-cutter's shirt hanging off her shoulders, Finland was stunned by her. Her eyes were drawn to her face, the evenness of her features, the straight nose, the fine cheekbones, her pale eyebrows drawn together as she tried to gauge Finland's reaction. She reached out one hand slightly, and stepped forward, the muscles moving under her pale skin from her collarbone to her wrist, her movement as light and powerful as a gliding seabird's.

Finland closed her eyes and drew in her breath to speak, to say something, anything to find her feet in her wonderful and bizarre new situation; in a rush, she came out with: 'I expect that that made the logging trip a bit awkward.' She followed the remark with a nervous laugh which made her want to run out into the snow and die.

Luckily, Sweden didn't look at her with utter disgust, and simply said calmly: ''Tonly happn'd on the last day. Made cutting th'logs a bit harder, bt'other than that t'wasn't too bad.'

She had a very low voice, still, a slightly rough alto that was softened by that customary mumbling accent of hers. Finland found it simultaneously endearing and intimidating; she would have been better able to appreciate its singular beauty if she hadn't been worrying so much about her own new voice.

'Well, haha, I bet that you still managed to hold your own, what with being... yourself,' Finland finished lamely. 'We're not the only ones this has happened to, by the way. Like I said, Germany and America and Ireland and quite a few others have changed too.'

''T's uh-really interesting situation.'

'I'll say,' Finland said, slightly ruefully. 'This is going to shake things up good and proper.'

Sweden regarded her with cool eyes. 'My'be having s'me more female nations'll help clean up the equal rights'n some places.'

'That would certainly be a benefit. Although it's a bit annoying that _we've _got lumbered with it considering that we're already leaders in the whole equality shebang, don't you think?'

Sweden came forward, her frown deepening. 'D'you not like it, Finland?'

'No. Yes. I don't know! It's so strange. It's too early to tell, don't you think?'

Sweden shrugged. 'I don't mind it.'

'Well, it's alright for you to say. You were a great guy – don't get me wrong! – but _somehow_... The transition's fit you like a glove.'

Sweden looked her up and down, and then replied matter-of-factly, 'I c'ld say the same t'you.'

Finland felt her face heating up with a blush. She stared determinedly down at her too-big socks, and gave as offhand a 'thank-you' as she could manage under the circumstances. A rather loaded silence descended between them.

Eventually, Finland came to herself and, with an effort, began to talk. 'I'll go and get some coffee on, you must be tired – '

'C'ffee would be great,' Sweden said, starting towards the kitchen. As she passed by, Finland felt acutely aware of the difference in height between them, something she had grown used to when they had both been men, and wondered what it would be like to see nations who were taller than Sweden, who had always been one of the giants at World Meetings. Still, she thought, Sweden cut no less of an impressive figure, despite the slight reduction in height: she was still probably six feet tall.

Their arms brushed as they made their way into the kitchen, and Finland started, looking up at Sweden; her stoic face seemed unaffected by the slight touch. However, as though sensing Finland's eyes on her, she looked down and appeared to think for a moment before opening her mouth to speak.

'Y'know what y'said on the phone when I was c'ming down.'

'About... about what? About my sex change?' Finland hedged candidly.

'No. About – about y'being m'wife. I didn't realise y'still remembered that.'

'It scarred me for life,' Finland joked, and then chuckled nervously before realising that Sweden looked even more serious than usual.

'I hoped you'd f'gotten, It was a m'stake. 'Mbarassing too.'

'What do you...'

'W'were talkin' to Pol'nd and Estonia, and I d'dn't speak Estoni'n very well. You r'member, back wh'n the dialects were all so diffrn't. I tried to think'f the best tr'nslation of friend. I would've said _vän_ in Swedish, and so th'closest thing that came 'nto my head was _naine.' _

Finland found herself caught between amusement, embarrassment and exasperation, eyeing Sweden incredulously as she kept her gaze firmly on the middle distance. 'Why didn't you just correct yourself? You _kept_ on with it?'

'We were doing some diffic'lt negotiating. Didn't want to lose face in front of P'land and the rest of them...'

'I... just...' Finland felt a laugh bubbling up inside her. 'That haunted me for years, Sweden! _Years!_'

''m Sorry. Like I said, I thought y'd forgott'n...'

The contrite expression on her face broke through Finland's last defences of rationality, and she doubled over in slightly hysterical laughter. Just then, Hanamatogo came running into the kitchen, barking excitedly at Sweden's return, and Sweden scooped the dog up into her arms before heading over to the cupboard to extricate the coffee.

She shook her head fondly in the direction of Finland, who was wiping her eyes, and murmuring to herself, 'and just when it might have been about to become an accurate description!'

Sweden smiled.

**OMAKE – Japan**

'Ototo-kun? You too?' China exclaimed, bearing down upon his little brother. Or sister, he reflected: he should probably start to think of her as such, though millennia-old habits die hard.

He had only come to see Japan for a friendly meal before he took care of some business relations – their governments were still squabbling over that territory dispute, and the division of natural resources had been deemed important enough to warrant a nation's presence – but here he was, outside some theatre or other that Japan had mentioned on Twitter, hoping to surprise him... or rather, her. Now _China _was the one who had been utterly surprised.

She was already taking to the feminine arts like a duck to water. Red lips, shining black hair scraped back into a bun, a lovely blue silk kimono, shining in the dim streetlights...

'China, it is wonderful to see you! But I – '

''The UN didn't tell me that _you_ had changed! But fear not, I will help you through it as best I can, my dear Japan!' he promised, pulling emergency supplies of green tea and kit kats out of his rucksack. 'Here, have some sugar. I don't want you to faint from the shock of it all. And I brought some painkilling herbs to help you through your first – '

'Thank-you, China, really, it isn't necessary – '

'Would you like me to stay here with you until the World Meeting? We can arrive together for emotional support! I shudder to think of you being accosted by some of those rough countries. We should keep you at least a hundred metres away from France at all times for at least – '

'_China!' _Japan broke all pretence of politeness and physically wrested herself free from his brotherly embrace. 'China. Just _calm_ down and look at me. _Properly. _And think. _Where are we?'_

China gestured vaguely. 'Outside some Kabuki place. You mentioned it on Twitter.'

'I mentioned thatI was _taking part in _a Kabuki revival piece. And what does Kabuki entail?'

'...Acting?'

'_Cross-dressing, _China,' Japan said wearily. 'I still remember enough about the _Oyama_ to give a good performance. I wouldn't have come out like this if one of the other actors hadn't said that you were waiting outside.'

China looked at him – her –_him _– for a few seconds, and then gave a very deep sigh.

'This gender business is too confusing for me,' he said heavily, putting the packet of Kit Kats slowly back into his bag.

'Wasn't it always thus?' Japan remarked, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

**A/N: YEAH. I'M SORRY. **

**I have no excuse. There is just nothing that can hope to make up for the fact that I abandoned this story for half a year. It was meant to take one month... we're getting on for almost eight. I'm really sorry, guys, but I promise – I SOLEMNLY VOW – that I will finish this story by the end of February. **

**The only pathetic plea that I can put forward in my defence is that A levels hit me in the face. But I understand that that is barely reason enough... and so I simply beg your apologies! **

**Other notes:**

**Vän: Swedish, meaning **_**friend, companion, partner, pal**_** etc. (Can also be used as a euphemism for **_**lover**_**(!)) Pronounced 'vane'.**

**Naine: Estonian for **_**wife, missus, female, **_**etc. **_**Not **_**exactly the connotation that Sweden was groping for. **

**I've always thought that Sweden was a little too nice – and too sane – to actually, seriously call Finland his 'wife', and so this right here is my personal headcanon as to what happened. I hope that y'all are cool with it. **

_**Omaya: **_**cross-dressing Kabuki actor, typically played by a young, handsome man**

**You should check out: Sherlock, Avatar: Legend of Korra (preceded by **_**Avatar: The Last Airbender **_**if you haven't already seen it) and Homestuck. Go, fly, immerse yourselves in these amazing canons! **

**Next chapter: The final and epic culmination of all the nations, genderswapped and otherwise, at a world meeting in zee one and only birthplace of Hetalia, crazyville extraordinaire: The Big Apple. Stay tuned! **

**PS: Sorry that I didn't change either China or Japan. I **_**have **_**got an East Asian nation up my sleeve, though... and I hope that you won't be too disappointed. *mysterious cackle***

**Au revoir, mes chers!**

**-KK**


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